A Phantom Herd

by Lorraine Ray

We were shopping in Nogales one rainy day-well, rainy doesn't really describe it. A hurricane came up from the Sea of Cortez. That happens sometimes in the early fall.

  Hooray for Mexico! Hooray for the cheap guitars and the dusty pi?atas! Hooray for the wind and the rain!

  Trash was flying everywhere. We'd barely crossed the border when the wind toppled a rack of ponchos; it flipped them over and spread them out and I thought they were going to take flight like a flock of headless witches.

  Three or four people warned us to stop. When we passed that big hotel, Fray Marcos de Niza, a man shouted, "Hey, folks, you're going the wrong way! Don't you know there's a hurricane?"

  And Dad shouted back, "Hurricane? What hurricane? I've got rum down here with my name on it."

  His rum. The only reason we were with him was that every person, regardless of age, could bring in a fifth, duty-free.

  I had the wind in my face. I was skipping on the pavement at my mother's side, smelling the far-off scent of wet creosote and vanilla and wool. I tried to study every shop window we passed, the baskets brimming with jumping beans, the rubbery dolls in sombreros, the onyx chess-sets. Then I saw it, the ultimate window. It had a display of carved wooden fleas spread out on a beautiful blue satin cloth. There they were--fleas reading the New York Times, driving Impalas, feeding chickens, holding hands, and painting the Sistine Chapel. I tugged Mother's dress. "We don't want to do any shopping," she reminded me.

  "Keep up!" Dad bellowed, "or I'll sell you to some toothless old hag."

  And it wasn't an idle threat to me. I could see the circles of women huddled together in the alleys, hiding the trinkets they sold in their rebozos. They were about to face a hurricane wrapped up like crepe paper surprise balls. I thought if Dad sold me to them they would put me to work selling chicle, and I was worrying about my future when one of my brothers shouted, 'The Constipated Conquistador!' That was what we called a crabby-faced Spaniard in a golden sun helmet that was painted on the backdrop of a photographer's donkey cart. Seeing him meant we were near Red Horse Liquors. Dad thought they had the best price on the demijohns of rum.

  Once we were there we gathered under the awning. "No dilly-dallying," said Dad, barreling into the shop after his precious demijohns. Mom opened her purse and handed each of us a quarter. "Go around to the bakeries," she suggested, because they were around the corner on a back street. I should have, but instead I went back after one of those fleas.

  I ran back to where I thought the shop with the toys was. Just then the rain began falling. Ice cold drops splashed down on the sidewalk and slammed into me. I couldn't see the shop; I suppose in my rush I had passed it. When I arrived at the bottom of Avenida Obregon, I turned around and ran back. Finally, I found it. The rain was coming down harder then.

  There were bells tied to the shop door. When I came in, I surprised the saleswomen who were folding blouses and laughing, their hair pulled back tightly into sleek black buns. One of them was drinking from a tiny cup. I stood at the back of the window and examined the fleas. After many debates with myself, I settled on one dressed in a serape and strumming a guitar.

  When I came out with my flea, the rain pounded the sidewalks. Water poured off the awnings; cold streams of it spurted unexpectedly out of drainpipes that led from the high roofs of the old adobes. The street had flooded to the curb; a brown river rushed by. I began running south toward The Red Horse, which was on the other side of the main street. As I ran, I tried to find a way to crossing where the flood was shallow. Pretty soon I came to an intersection where I had to ford deep water or stay where I was. A skinny man in a madras shirt ran toward me hollering, "Juditha! Juditha!" I thought he might offer to carry me. But he didn't. He simply ran past, and for the first time I felt afraid. The water was raging down from the hills. Nogales is like a funnel at the border. I hesitated and then leaped in. I felt it above my knees, warm water. It was moving so swiftly. I waded toward the opposite curb. Halfway across, things began happening. First there were sounds. I heard a glub, glub, glub noise. That was the warning.